Chapter 703: Old acquaintance
Crash!
The train windows were smashed from the inside, sending countless glass shards flying.
Rip!!
The iron plating wrapping the train car was violently slashed, destroyed, and torn apart.
Like a swarm of locusts passing through, the train was being devoured and dismantled at an extreme speed—windows shattered, cabins ruined, doors forcibly removed. In the blink of an eye, one of the train cars was hollowed out, leaving only a jagged, skeletal frame.
Nightmare’s influence also seemed to be rapidly pouring in through the breaches.
“Look!”
“What, is the signal coming back?!!”
Accompanied by a monotonous, eerie static sound, the massive black screens that had constantly displayed “Signal Lost” suddenly showed the words “Signal Reconnecting.” Beneath the static “snow,” intermittent images were gradually increasing bit by bit.
Suddenly, the advance of the Oracle team halted, and the rapidly shifting images froze again.
The static flashed, and the next second, the terrifying face of a green-skinned, fanged malicious ghost was abruptly magnified on the screen, violently startling the viewers.
“Holy shit!”
It was Ji Guan.
The malicious ghost vividly and hideously crawled out from under his skin, firmly blocking the center of the train. Its icy, violent aura could almost be felt through the screen. And right behind him was a leaping arc of silver light as the crescent blade swept gracefully past.
Bzz bzz.
Static flashed across the screen.
A long, agonizing half-minute passed. Just before the viewers grew so anxious they were ready to riot, the footage finally, belatedly, recovered.
Blood splattered across the scattered, ruined interior walls of the train. Half a leg rolled down the tilted floor of the train, its cross-section smooth and neat, slightly curved—clearly severed by Figaro’s crescent blade. Another Oracle member’s face was deathly pale. Although he hadn’t lost any limbs, the skin exposed from his cuffs had taken on an inelastic, ashen-gray color that spread all the way down his neck, as if he was being eroded by some invisible force.
But the next second, a bizarre thing happened.
Accompanied by a grotesque sound that resembled writhing flesh and blood, a new limb grew outward from the neatly severed stump at a visible speed. Meanwhile, the ashen-gray color on the other person’s skin rapidly vanished, restoring his normal skin tone in the blink of an eye.
“Wait a minute, did I see that right? Severed limb regeneration???”
“Is this actually allowed to happen?”
“Fuck,” Ji Guan spat out a mouthful of black blood, his gaze fierce. “They’re cheating.”
This kind of healing ability—bringing the dead back to life and growing flesh on bones—was not permitted to exist inside an instance. Only after an instance ended could anchors who successfully cleared it exchange their points for this kind of treatment. But now, this blatant privilege that shouldn’t exist was happening live before everyone’s eyes. This only proved one thing: Nightmare had completely cast aside its dignity and wasn’t even bothering to pretend anymore.
In the blink of an eye, the two injured members were fully restored.
And between their seemingly inadvertently parted shoulders, the figure of a hooded man appeared.
On the screen, he slowly raised his head.
Beneath the hood was a half-exposed face—icy, ashen, and deathly lifeless.
“…”
Instantly, the barrage of comments fell silent.
The viewers’ eyes were glued to the screen, so tense they barely dared to look away, terrified of missing even a single second of the thrilling climax.
Yet, without any warning, the screen went pitch black once again.
“?!”
The sudden blackout left the viewers stunned.
[What’s going on?]
[Fuck, did the signal cut out again?]
[No, no it didn’t. Look, the status over there says ‘Live’, not ‘Signal Lost’ or anything else.]
[Then what’s happening?]
[Could it be that it’s genuinely just that dark outside?]
From deep within the pitch-black screen, a miserable scream suddenly rang out.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh—”
It was an uncontrollable wail, bursting from the throat under immense pressure. It didn’t sound like it was made voluntarily by a human, but rather squeezed out by some sheer external force. The sound was so shrill and tragic that it sent an involuntary shudder through everyone, instinctively raising their hackles.
“?!”
“Holy shit, what exactly is happening over there? Why does it sound so agonizing?”
As if to answer the viewers’ confusion, the darkness shielding the screen gently dispersed.
The first things to appear were a pair of icy yellow lights, devoid of any emotion, burning intensely like embers. It wasn’t until the darkness fully cleared that the viewers realized those were actually a pair of eyes.
A pair of brilliant golden eyes.
A feeling of horror crept up their spines.
“Urgh, uhhh—” The wail abruptly sounded again.
This time, besides pain, the voice carried a few more hints of trembling and absolute terror.
That sound finally pulled the viewers’ attention back, giving them the capacity to cast their gazes to other parts of the screen.
Even though the Oracle team had retreated very quickly, someone had still been a beat too slow.
“I thought humans couldn’t live without a head.” Wu Zhu lowered his eyes.
He commented: “Interesting.”
His tone was frighteningly calm.
On the ground, a complete head was rolling around. Even though it had lost its head, the remaining body still stood stiffly upright.
The head floated, imprisoned in the shadows, its face ghastly pale, its expression terrified. Its gaze was locked tightly onto its own body not far away, and despite dripping in cold sweat, it couldn’t shift its eyes away.
Wu Zhu: “What if we remove the spine?”
His voice carried a sort of callous curiosity, like a child dismantling a flying insect bit by bit in their own innocent yet cruel manner.
Shadows surged from behind him, and the bloody spinal column was forcefully ripped out of the body. The human head could only watch helplessly, shackled by the shadows, its spasming eyelids unable to close, its deformed face letting out a choking “hehe” sound.
“Still not enough.”
The black tide surged forward once again. This time, it swallowed both the body and the severed head, and then receded just as it had come.
The area that had just been covered was now completely empty. Nothing was left, except for a fine, dense paste of flesh and blood smeared across the floor and walls—like a person had been thrown into a meat grinder and very patiently ground down until they became a viscous, semi-liquid slurry.
No remains, no fragments, leaving absolutely nothing that could be reconstructed.
“Mm.”
The man lowered his icy golden eyes, sweeping his gaze across the floor. “So this is what it takes.”
“………”
Figaro, who had witnessed the entire process, felt his eyebrow twitch, involuntarily adopting an expression like he had a severe toothache.
He carefully stepped backward, cautiously putting some distance between himself and Wu Zhu.
When they were moving together earlier, this guy had acted so much like a human that Figaro had momentarily forgotten the fact that this entity was not of his kind, but was fundamentally something far more terrifying.
Thinking of this, a sense of deep admiration spontaneously arose within him.
To be able to get all lovey-dovey with a monster like this—just on pure mental acceptance alone, Wen Jianyan could defeat at least 99% of their peers.
Whether it was his strength, his guts, or his… specific tastes, it all merited a completely new dimension of evaluation.
Unlike Figaro’s profound respect, Ji Guan’s expression shifted faster and was far more complex. Who knew what exactly he was imagining, but by the time he looked at Wu Zhu again, the look in his eyes had turned into one of grief and indignation.
Right at this moment, accompanied by a loud boom, the ground beneath their feet vibrated.
Wen Jianyan’s side had clearly successfully found a solution to the problem.
The train had started.
Like a long-slumbering steel behemoth awakening, its crippled body vibrated, and the engine roared. Amidst the violent sounds and tremors of crashing metal and operating machinery, the entire train began to move.
The group was startled and quickly reached out to grab the walls of the cabin to prevent themselves from being thrown off by the impact of the train’s movement.
Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, the Oracle team not far away seized the opportunity to swiftly evacuate. Clearly, they had also realized that clashing with them head-on here was not a wise decision, so they immediately fled backward, deciding to avoid their sharp edges for now.
“No,”
Ji Guan’s eyes flashed fiercely, “Don’t let them escape!”
The Oracle team hadn’t boarded the train this time to fight them; this train itself was their target. Using their human identities, they were dismantling the train from the inside. Only by destroying it could they stop Wen Jianyan from delving deeper into the cruise ship.
“Rest assured,”
Wu Zhu said.
“I won’t.”
The tall god took a step forward, the deep shadows expanding beneath his feet as he advanced, surging wildly ahead.
“I still need to use their lives to claim credit from my partner.”
Negative Seventh Floor.
Under the dim lighting, a slender, young figure leapt into the air.
A heavy machete, completely disproportionate to her size, trailed lightly behind her, swinging through the air with an ear-piercing shriek. Like tearing open a candy wrapper, another corpse was effortlessly sliced in half at the waist.
Squelch—
The sound of flesh being torn apart rang out. Dark red blood splattered like paint, and the cold, putrid stench was so intense it could almost make one’s eyes water.
“Haha…”
The little girl laughed joyfully.
Countless corpses already lay strewn across the ground, all torn to pieces by some brute force. Even if they hadn’t truly “died” in the strict sense, they had completely lost their mobility.
“Hiss…”
Watching Orange Candy in the distance, No. 8 drew in a sharp breath of cold air.
“This friend of yours is really…”
He paused, seemingly searching for the right words.
“…Uh, full of personality.”
“I know.” Wen Ya didn’t look up, her tone calm. “Hurry, don’t waste time.”
Orange Candy was responsible for drawing the aggro of the corpses on this floor, while they were responsible for searching for clues.
After realizing that all the hanging paintings on the walls had inexplicably disappeared, Wen Ya keenly noticed that something was wrong. Even if she didn’t know what role this floor played in Wen Jianyan’s plan, those paintings were definitely crucial.
“…” No. 8 looked distressed. He let out a long sigh, shuffling forward reluctantly. “I told you before, I’m not in charge of operations on this floor.”
Although he was a service staff member on the cruise ship, he was a direct subordinate of Mesvis, who managed the casino floor. This auction floor was Calbel’s territory. They minded their own business and had almost no crossover.
“I really can’t find the paintings here.”
“I know, which is why I didn’t ask you to find them,” Wen Ya replied.
Having experienced the Lucky Cruise Ship instance before, she remembered the structure of this floor very clearly. This floor actually contained two auctions simultaneously—an “Outer” auction open to humans, and an “Inner” auction open to ghosts. And those paintings hanging on the walls were the connecting passages between the two.
While Orange Candy was drawing their aggro, they had already thoroughly searched the entire negative seventh floor and hadn’t found any trace of those paintings.
So, if the paintings were still on this floor, there was only one last place they could be hidden.
“The passage to the Inner Auction floor is what we need to find right now.”
No. 8: “Then wouldn’t that proxy captain be better suited to help you…”
“If it were before, maybe he could,” Su Cheng walked up from behind, looking up at the empty wall in front of him. “But not anymore.”
He and Dan Zhu were both proxy captains, but their “privileges” weren’t entirely equal; they maintained a certain dynamic balance. If Dan Zhu was strong, he was weak; if he was strong, Dan Zhu was weak. That was how the two kept each other in check. However, as Nightmare’s power once again took over the cruise ship, the scales had completely tipped to one side. While Dan Zhu gained unprecedented authority, the power he could control was slashed to its absolute lowest. If Dan Zhu was essentially equivalent to the captain right now, then Su Cheng could be said to have lost almost all of his captain’s authority.
He lowered his eyes, scrutinizing the Star and Moon Tarot floating in his hand, his brows knitting together.
“What do you see?” Wen Ya asked.
“Wait.” Su Cheng took a deep breath and lowered his hand, and the Tarot floating in his palm disappeared. “It tells us to wait patiently.”
Before he even finished speaking, a sharp crack came from behind them, followed by an increasingly crazed laughter.
They instinctively turned their heads.
The blood-soaked little girl stood atop a high mountain of corpses, laughing gleefully and maniacally. She seemed to be stimulated by the smell of blood in the air, her movements growing increasingly violent. The corpses trampled under her feet were nearly shredded to pieces, viscous black liquid gurgling down.
“Haha… Hahahahaha!!”
Yet the next second, the laughter abruptly stopped.
“…”
Orange Candy stood in place, black blood dripping down the side of her face. The smile was still frozen on the corners of her mouth, but her eyes had suddenly lost their focus.
She lowered her head, looking at everything beneath her feet, her expression appearing somewhat bewildered.
For some reason, Wen Ya’s heart gave a sudden thump, and she subconsciously took a step forward: “Orange Candy…”
As if hearing her voice, the other party looked up.
That small, tender face carried an unfocused panic and helplessness, finally looking appropriate for her actual age.
“Who are you?”
“Where is this?”
“Mommy… where’s mommy…”
Behind her, a corpse that hadn’t been fully chopped to pieces staggered to its feet, step by step approaching the completely defenseless Orange Candy.
Wen Ya’s gaze sharpened: “Watch out!!!!”
As if jolted awake by her voice, Orange Candy snapped to attention. The next second, the familiar fanaticism and ruthlessness reappeared in her eyes. She spun around violently, burying the heavy blade deep into the corpse’s skull. Viscous, dark-red blood gushed out like a fountain, showering her.
She curled her lips in disgust:
“Ew, so gross.”
However, Wen Ya didn’t relax despite Orange Candy’s recovery. Her expression remained solemn as she quickly walked over, carefully examining her from head to toe.
“What happened just now?”
“What do you mean what happened?” Orange Candy didn’t care at all. Carrying the heavy machete, she tilted her head, her gaze fixed on the distance. “Alright, get out of the way, I’m not done with my business…”
“Answer my question first.”
Wen Ya stood in front of her, as calm, rational, and methodical as always. “The entire negative seventh floor is mostly cleared out. Without the continuous support of the seawater, these remaining corpses don’t pose much of a threat anymore—and even if they did, it doesn’t matter. At least until you tell me the situation, I will not proceed to the next step of the plan.”
“You think you can stop me?”
Orange Candy narrowed her eyes dangerously, a crazed look dancing in them.
“I can’t,” Wen Ya stared at her steadfastly, not avoiding or shrinking back. Her voice had zero fluctuation, carrying an unyielding determination. “But you will at least have to step over my body to do it.”
The two stared at each other, and the atmospheric pressure around them seemed to plummet instantly.
Finally, Orange Candy was the first to lose it. She exasperatedly raised her hands and messed up her own hair: “Ahhhhhhh!!!!”
“So annoying!”
“Fine, fine.” She curled her lips, looking somewhat deflated. “If you really want to know, I suppose I can tell you.”
As Wen Ya had witnessed, Orange Candy’s talent was time reversal, and the price she had to pay for it was the regression of her physical age.
“Are you saying… what happened just now was… the price?” Wen Ya was stunned.
“To be precise,” Orange Candy raised her eyes, a half-smile on her face, completely unbothered, “It’s the manifestation of the price.”
“It doesn’t just mean my lifespan is continuously counting down…”
“Even if I don’t say it, you know, right? Adults and children are different biologically, whether it’s the body or whatever else… What do you think happens when you stuff a fully mature soul into a child’s body? Guess?”
Wen Ya opened her mouth but no sound came out.
“Did you know?”
The little girl tilted her head, raised her hand, and tapped her knuckles against her temple one by one. Her tone was indifferent, her expression hollow, as she abruptly changed the subject:
“It hurts here all the time.”
A throbbing, throbbing pain.
The pressure from her cranial cavity acted upon her temples all the time, day and night, bringing a lingering mania and pain that could almost drive a person mad.
“Sometimes memories get lost too… but there’s nothing to be done about that. After all, a child’s brain can only hold so much stuff.”
“But that complete regression just now, even for me, is very rare. In my memory, it’s only happened twice before. Once was when I turned thirteen, and it lasted about three seconds. The other time was when I was the size of a nine-year-old, and that time was five seconds. This time…”
Orange Candy paused, counting on her fingers. “It should have been fourteen seconds.”
“…”
Wen Ya maintained her silence, not saying a word. Perhaps she didn’t know what to say, or perhaps she felt that nothing should be said right now.
“Alright, now I’ve told you the answer.”
The little girl looked up with a grinning, heartless face.
“It’s time to let me go back to playing, right?”
“Hah… Hah…”
At the end of the corridor, Hugo was panting heavily, no longer possessing his previous ease. He raised his eyes. Blood seeped from his forehead, flowing into his right eye, forcing him to squint as he looked at the woman standing not far away.
In contrast to his wretched state, Dan Zhu looked no different than she did before the battle began.
Blood-red flowers bloomed beneath her feet, at her fingertips, and behind her back, covering the entire corridor like a carpet, emitting a dizzyingly strong, putrid fragrance.
A thin vine stretched out and wrapped around her finger, coated in the blood that had dripped from Hugo.
That blood looked very bizarre. Half of it still maintained the state of blood, but the other half was slowly dissipating into grayish-white smoke.
Dan Zhu rubbed her fingers together, and the blood drifted away in the air, leaving no trace behind, like dust swept up by the wind.
She swept an assessing gaze over Hugo, and soon, she seemed to understand something.
Dan Zhu smiled, calling out his name: “Hugo.”
“The Executioner’s contract has been destroyed.”
Though her tone was as intimate as a lover’s, the contents she spat out were as sharp as a knife.
“You have no path of return left.”
Making a contract with Nightmare was tantamount to making a deal with the devil.
Whether you complied or resisted, you were bound to pay the price.
Everything it invested into a person was a heavy debt that was never-ending and never forgotten. The moment you chose to break the contract, everything would be exacted from you in the most agonizing and extreme way.
“Tell me,” Dan Zhu looked at him with a smiling face, seemingly genuinely curious, “What does it feel like?”
“…”
Hugo closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and straightened his posture once again.
Blood dripped from his slightly trembling fingertips, but before it hit the ground, it had already turned into smoke and dissipated.
No one knew exactly what he was enduring right now.
He raised his eyes, his gaze landing on Dan Zhu, and slowly said: “…A weight off my shoulders.”
That was right.
When the countdown disappeared and his ears fell into deathly silence for the first time, it was the first time Hugo had felt… relaxed.
He finally didn’t have to follow orders anymore, finally didn’t have to obey every command.
He was finally free.
Free to live, and free to die.
“…” Seemingly not hearing the answer she wanted, Dan Zhu narrowed her eyes, her expression turning somewhat gloomy. She opened her mouth as if wanting to say something, but stopped before the words came out.
She zoned out slightly, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear.
Seeing this, Hugo’s heart involuntarily tightened. Without warning, a strong sense of foreboding struck him.
He knew what this meant.
—Nightmare was speaking to her.
Providing intelligence, relaying demands, giving instructions.
Just like it used to do to him.
Soon, this conversation that no second person could hear concluded. Dan Zhu smiled, turning her face to look at Hugo: “It seems that although catching up to Pinocchio is out of the question, there are still a few little mice rummaging around deep underground. Quite unfortunate, I have to go deal with them urgently.”
Hugo’s brows sank: “You’re not leaving.”
Smoke mixed with blood-red gathered together and surged forward furiously, but it was firmly blocked by vines of the same color.
Dan Zhu turned sideways, curling her lips: “I know you want to stop me here, even if it means dying outright, right? —But unfortunately, although I’d like to keep playing with you, time cannot be wasted.”
The smile on her lips deepened, carrying a secretive malice.
“But don’t worry. Even though I won’t play with you, there are plenty of others who will.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“This is a gift from Nightmare.”
Just like that, with a cryptic smile, Dan Zhu turned around, her blood-red skirt twirling at her feet.
Hugo took a step forward: “Wait—”
But before he could chase after her, a familiar voice came from behind him:
“Captain.”
The voice from his memory appeared clearly in his ears.
Instantly, Hugo was struck as if by lightning.
He froze in place, his hanging fingers trembling violently. His mind went blank, and all his flowing blood turned freezing cold in an instant, as if he had been dragged back down into the deepest layer of hell alive.
“…”
Hugo closed his eyes and slowly turned his head.
Behind him stood familiar figures.
In every pair of their eyes was brimming with an unfamiliar, vicious malice.
“Your next opponents are us, Captain.”
Like a venomous snake opening its bloody maw and biting into his heart, injecting a lethal toxin.
“Now, die in peace.”
Inside the train’s driver cabin.
Outside the hazy window, silver, glittering tracks had appeared at some unknown time. They extended into the endless darkness, as if leading to another world.
The train rumbled into motion, roaring forward.
The clatter-clatter sound of its operation echoed throughout the cabin.
Blond held onto the wall, stabilizing himself again: “We… we succeeded.”
Even now, his tone was slightly hollow, as if he still found it unbelievable.
“The train started…”
“Yeah.”
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath, raised his head, and looked out the window.
They thought the train would be running inside the cruise ship, but contrary to their expectations, the scene outside the window was definitely not the interior of the cruise ship. Everything outside was so dark, empty, and boundless.
And deep within the darkness, faint, distant silhouettes could vaguely be seen.
Suddenly, a corner of the darkness was ripped open, and a red light fell from above—a rift bleeding like a wound. Compared to the last time Wen Jianyan saw it, the size of the rift had expanded nearly twofold. It lay abruptly across the sky, dyeing the entire world light red. Countless bulging eyeballs rolled within it, eventually locking their gaze dead onto the train below.
However, thanks to this faint, ominous red light, the massive silhouettes in the distance were also illuminated.
“Look!” Blond suddenly shouted, “Is there some kind of building over there?”
Wen Jianyan turned to look.
Under the illumination of the faint red light, a building that had been burned black and dilapidated, leaving only ruined walls, was shockingly visible.
This place was far too familiar. He couldn’t help but freeze slightly.
That was the beginning of his earliest memories, and also the place he had destroyed with his own hands.
“…” Wen Jianyan quickly snapped back to his senses, nodding. “Yes.”
“That’s the Orphanage, the one we went to before. It was one of the first few instances put into operation when Nightmare initially started up.”
Sitting on the floor, Chen Mo raised his eyes. His brows were furrowed, his tone weak. Although he had lost his combat ability, his mind remained clear: “Wait, I thought we were going straight to the negative seventh floor?”
“I thought so too,” Wen Jianyan frowned, “But looking at it now, it seems to have taken a detour.”
This wasn’t impossible for the train; after all, neither time nor space restricted its travel.
But this was not a good thing for Wen Jianyan—his talent only lasted for three minutes. Only during this time would the “station on the negative seventh floor” exist. Once the time passed, the lie would disappear. Of course, he could use his talent again to extend the validity of this lie, but what if the train operated for a whole day and night like it did before? With its current scrap-metal state, could it last that long? What if there was a limit to the number of times the Dead Sea Scrolls could be used?
Everything was unknown.
Seeming to have suddenly thought of a certain possibility, Wen Jianyan’s gaze paused. He abruptly stood up, making a prompt decision: “We can’t stay here anymore. I have to go find the others.”
Blond was stunned: “What…?”
“There’s only one possibility as to why the train didn’t head straight to the negative seventh floor.” Wen Jianyan turned around, half his face illuminated by the ominous red light outside the window, shades of crimson settling deep within his eyes. His voice was very light, but every word was clear. “It prioritized the destinations of the other passengers on board before ours.”
Then, the question arose.
Since they were all passengers, why were those others judged to have a higher priority?
The rear half of the train had become severely battered. Half of it was smashed when they crashed into the cruise ship, and the other half had just suffered severe damage.
The cold, gloomy wind howled into the train, whipping the broken iron plates and making them clatter.
The Oracle squad had been utterly scattered.
Although a Prophet could foresee the arrival of danger, it didn’t mean they could dodge every single threat.
At this moment, no one understood more clearly than them just how terrifying an existence a so-called “False God” truly was.
The shadows arrived silently, the threat of death following like a shadow. A living, breathing person who had been standing beside them just a second ago was, in the very next second—without even the time to let out a scream—ground into a slurry of flesh and blood by that invisible force. Silently, without warning, it was as irresistible as a natural disaster. They weren’t the same species, let alone the same level…
This was indiscriminate slaughter.
It was a despair that words could not describe.
Even though they had long prepared themselves for death, under this indescribable oppression, they still felt instinctual, primal fear.
Walk faster, run faster!
Dodge those shadows, bypass the darkness!
Things that usually seemed utterly ordinary and ubiquitous had become as chilling as the Grim Reaper here. Even the slightest trace of a shifting shadow made their entire bodies tense up, vigilant and panicked like birds startled by the mere twang of a bowstring.
In the very center of the pitch-black sky, the blood-colored eye stared down.
Piercing through the damaged roof, it shone directly into the interior of the train.
Gentleman, who had been walking amidst the group like a walking corpse, suddenly stopped in his tracks. The Oracle member behind him bumped right into him. He jolted, and in his panic, couldn’t help but lash out in humiliated anger: “What are you stopping for? You’re just a puppet…”
Gentleman stood completely still.
He slowly raised his head. The red thread across his throat was stark and cold. A pair of numb eyes reflected the red light from above, gradually recovering their luster.
“Ah…”
He slowly rolled his shoulders.
“This body.”
His tone of speaking was very strange, carrying an eerie, uncomfortable cadence, as if he wasn’t accustomed to human language.
“I’m still a bit unused to it.”
“But at least I’m no longer constantly soaking in a petri dish.”
“Gentleman” slowly turned his head.
Even though his facial features hadn’t changed at all, the aura surrounding him had become extremely unfamiliar.
He didn’t seem alive, but he didn’t seem dead either, and he didn’t even seem like himself.
The Oracle members beside him froze. Instantly, a bizarre shudder swept over their bodies. They couldn’t help but take a step back, distancing themselves from this Vice Guild Leader who was even more terrifying now than when he was alive.
“Who… who are you?”
The person asked nervously and tremblingly.
“Gentleman” stared at him with those hair-raising eyes and suddenly smiled slowly.
“You don’t recognize me?”
“I am the one who created your guild.”
